Exile
by ErinHasse
Summary: The clone's anatomy was horribly off - it was too skinny, too short, too...young. Leonardo knew that he should just kill it off; it was just a clone. Just a clone - with his baby brother's face. And as he learns later, his brother's soul and heart as well. 2k12 meets 2k3, sort of.
1. Interlude I

I.

It had been an approximate six months, fifteen days, nine hours and twenty-something seconds since he'd arrived.

And not once in that length of time did Leonardo feel he'd achieved what he'd left home for.

The quiet rustle of leaves interrupted his train of thought, and the blue-banded turtle opened one eye and peeked through the foliage of the tree he'd taken refuge in for the night. The rays of light slipping between the lush leaves signaled an hour well after dawn. Maybe one of the villagers got lost in the forest…

…Again. Leonardo briefly toyed with the idea of spreading a rumor about bandits just to keep the curious ones at their village. Not much of a chance that would work though.

Stretching his limbs, he nimbly stood upright on the branch, noting how humid the air was this early in the morning. It'd get hotter as the day stretched on, he knew, and idly opted to find that waterfall he had passed a few weeks back. It would make an excellent spot for meditation.

Looking down at the dim rainforest floor, his eyes searched for anything but the usual green of fauna and foliage, expecting either one very curious villager, or one very experienced tribe-member hunting for food.

He, instead, found Fate throwing a metaphorical piece of bullshit at him in the form of a bandit caravan passing through the rainforest's only road. It consisted of a short line of vans with tinted, most likely bulletproof windows – three, at his current line of sight – each flanked by armed goons on foot. As the caravan continued on, Leonardo sucked in a breath and darted forward. He saw their slow pace, noted their sunken cheeks and dry tongues when they spoke. Low on supplies then, finding water must be a priority as well. He saw their hungry, darkened eyes occasionally flicking towards a particular van, sometimes whispering to a fellow bandit as they curled and uncurled their fists.

The first van on the line rocked considerably more than the four others, and Leonardo could hear some faint thumping inside. He swallowed the bile rising up his throat and observed the third van. Rambunctious laughter echoed from the surprisingly open window, revealing a television and more than a few bandits inside. Te scent of alcohol wafted to his spot among the treetops, and then after wrinkling his snout at the smell, his attention diverted to the last van.

Steady, silent – unknown, a threat.

Or if he had any luck, he was over thinking things.

Fat chance of that happening though.


	2. Interlude II

II.

If he'd have to describe what he was feeling to someone, perhaps to a doctor, all they'd get would be incoherent strings of slurs and half-hearted gestures.

His vision was swimming, dark colors blending in with each other and destroying any chance of comprehension. His limbs felt heavy with fatigue and he could feel something stuck in his shell. At least he was lying on his plastron.

But if the wet stuff he was feeling drip down from the back of his head was blood he was screwed either way.

He didn't take much notice of it much at first, what with just barely emerging from the depths of unconsciousness, but it _smelled _like blood and the floor was moving.

His first thought was: earthquake. Which, after some thought about it in a mental voice entirely too similar to Donnie's, wasn't too likely as he was now staring up at black tinted windows on the walls of what looked like a van.

He could see trees passing them by, filled with vines and birds looking more pissed off than a New York pigeon not getting any bread crumbs.

Which meant he was in a car, being driven who knows where, and be subjected to who knows what.

It wasn't a comforting thought to drift back into unconsciousness to.

III.

Leo followed the caravan for only a few dozen more minutes before he noticed that they were nearing the waterfall. Frowning at the lack of cover, Leonardo decided to stop at the tree closest to the river, squinting when one of the bandits from the first van got out. A few more followed him to the last van, and Leonardo leaned in to get a closer look.

His vision, however, was blocked by foliage getting in the way via inconvenient breeze. While appreciative of the coolness it brought, he was less than pleased to miss out whatever they had lugged out of the van, if the sound of the doors sliding close was any indication.

Something was then hurled into the torrent waves of the river, and out of the corner of his eyes Leonardo found the water turning …red.

He had to wait until the vans drifted off, noting their license plates, before dashing off to try and save another unfortunate victim of theirs.

s attention diverted to the last van.

Steady, silent – unknown, a threat.

Or if he had any luck, he was over thinking things.


	3. Chapter 1

IV.

He should have ignored it.

He should have let it die, should have let it be swept into the angry currents of the river.

Leonardo swore under his breath, his fingers clutching the hilt of his sword. His bloodshot eyes were kept firmly on the large, green creature he had dragged out of the angry currents of the river, looking for any sign of movement that could give him the signal to kill.

Unfortunately for Leonardo, the creature he regrettably saved didn't so much as stir. If Leonardo had bothered to do so, he would have noticed that the small, thin, and unsurprisingly lean man-sized mutant turtle was out cold due to a large bruise on his head. Or did—

(_He's probably got a concussion._)

However, all Leonardo could see was a man in a black suit with sunglasses hiding the mocking amusement showing in the not-human human man's eyes, taunting him from somewhere unreachable.

(_Damn him._)

Leonardo didn't know how Bishop even knew he was in Central America, and though he knew very well it was actually a stretch to blame the small turtle mutant's existence on Bishop – whom he actually hadn't heard from for months now – Bishop was the only one who had both the technology and staff to recreate mutant turtles that looked like him and his brothers.

Glancing down, Leonardo grimaced. Obviously this one was a failure – it was too small, too short, too thin. Its legs were too long, the hands too big, and Leonardo didn't need the creature to open its eyes to see that they would be too big. The little thing was probably a mix of all their DNA. It was lean, yes, but the blue-banded turtle doubted that the creature had any sort of formal training. More than likely, Bishop could only have its scientist's inject in physical memories, and then gave the experiment a test of sorts – something to gauge if the experiment was up to par with the originals, perhaps even better.

Obviously, the creature failed, if the extensive injuries on its being said anything.

It was hardly breathing, and the gaping cuts on its arms were seeping out more than enough blood to make the river pinkish. It would not last long.

It would be merciful, honestly, to cut him down now and be done with it – at least then the creature wouldn't have to suffer. Raising his sword, Leonardo visually aimed for the little thing's neck.

A muffled groan.

Leonardo stopped midway into his attack. The creature mumbled something under his breath, voice so incredibly hoarse. Looking now, Leonardo was stunned to see that the experiment was badly dehydrated, malnourished too. Why would Bishop willingly starve his experiment? Wouldn't it make sense to keep the experiment alive and healthy?

Shaking his head, Leonardo brought his sword up again –

"Leo…"

And let it clatter to the ground, barely missing the creature.

Horror crawled up the blue-banded turtle's back like long, black tendrils seeking to choke him to his death. He knew that voice. Gods, he knew that voice.

The creatu – no, mutant – the mutant whimpered again, calling out his name in a heart-stopping familiar sense of desperate fright.

Leonardo knew that voice. Never mind that it had been a few years since Michelangelo had started his voice breaking days, this mutant, undeniably, had Michelangelo's – his baby brother – voice.

It was likely that this mutant had the rest of his brother's attributes too – his laughter, his thoughts, ideals and so painfully large heart that had more than enough room for every single one of his friends and family members.

(_Damn him._)

Leonardo scowled at himself for his weakness – _pick up the damn blade and be done with it_!

His mind screamed at him to finish this perverse clone of his brother, that this mutant wasn't Michelangelo, wasn't his baby brother who could light up an entire room just by smiling.

And yet the rest of him seemed to like being frozen on the spot, eyes firmly attached to the mutant who was beginning to groan in pain at his feet.

This was not Michelangelo.

Yet he was.

With shaking fingers, Leonardo bent down and tried to grip at his sword's hilt properly, failing miserably as he did so. He could feel the beads of cold sweat running down his being, the way his muscles were much too stiff at the face of this…mutant.

Leonardo knew that he should kill the mutant. He should before the mutant became a threat to him and his family. His brothers, his family and friends – they all came first before his own selfish needs.

Leonardo turned on his heel.

…So why was he turning back? Why was he running away from the stranger with his brother's face?


	4. Chapter 2

V.

Michelangelo woke up to the sound of water rushing all around him.

The first thought that entered his mind was:

That smells so gross – _what the heck did Raph eat?_

Then, the small teenager inhaled, and his nostrils were promptly assaulted with a pungent, metallic smell that made his now noticeably aching chest burn with a cough.

_Blood—_

Immediately, the bandless turtle's instincts kicked in and tried to stand at attention. The rest of him, however, wasn't inclined to agree and his legs quickly fell out from under him. Michelangelo fell to the ground In a crumpled heap, coughs racking his body and tearing at his dry, dry throat.

_Water—_

Both his hands went to grip at his throat when he began to taste blood on his tongue. His eyes were screwed shut, but he didn't need sight to know he was coughing up blood, and a lot of it. When he finished, a shudder ran up his spine and he drew his knees up, wincing at the sharp pain going up his legs as he did so.

_How long have I been out?_

All he could smell was blood and sweat, his legs were probably broken, his chest hurt like Raph slammed a Bo staff into it, the back of his head hurt, and he was colder than that time he accidentally forgot to heat up the water during the winter and promptly jumped in it. There was something stuck _in his shell _and the thought scared him more than he could let on.

But then another thought entered his mid;

Who pulled him out?

Craning his neck to the left, he felt his heart damn well stop at the sight of a goddamn _waterfall_. The strong currents would never have re-directed him to the riverbank.

Looking around as best as he could – which wasn't much as he couldn't move much without feeling a stab of _shitshitshit please don't be broken!_

He couldn't see any distinctive footprints on the ground, not even on the mud stained red. There wasn't a single disturbance on _anything._

All he could smell was blood, sweat, and…

…Michelangelo took in a second, deep breath, just to make sure.

Then he closed his eyes and curled up on the ground.

He wasn't in New York anymore.

VI.

Sixty-six. Sixty-seven. Sixty-eight. Sixty-nine. Seventy.

Idly, Michelangelo wondered when or if he was going to stand up and try to find a way out. He knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that if he wasn't going to stand up something might get into his injuries and he'd rather not get infected. But he also couldn't really move, nor did he have the motivation to do so.

There was nothing but a static quietness ringing in his ears – the sounds of the…jungle, rainforest, _whatever _fading into background noise. He felt his head throbbing and his limbs heavier than lead.

_Hey._

Obviously, the Donnie-voice in his head was part of his head trauma. He couldn't really find it in himself to care though.

_Mikey. Mike, come on, get up. You're going to die from infection if you don't do something…!_

Michelangelo would've swatted the air in vague annoyance if he could. He _couldn't _move, dammit! Everything hurt too much to even _breathe _properly. Every single breath made some bubbly sound come out from his throat and he didn't take that as a good sign.

_Mikey… Come on, please? Answer me…_

The tone imaginary-Donnie made Michelangelo cringe with something resembling guilt.

_…You… Raph. Just…you need to find Raph. You guys got separated in that explosion._

Michelangelo did remember something…loud. He couldn't recall if he was with Raph, though.

All he could recall were the features of some angry, blonde human snarling something at him before he was thrown backwards…into…

Ugh.

His head hurt too much to think.

_Crack._

Michelangelo released a low, pained groan under his breath and tried to stand up. Injured he may be, but his senses hadn't dulled in the slightest.

Someone was here. Or, in the same area, close enough for him to hear it. Whatever. Same thing.


	5. Chapter 3

VIII.

The thing about tracking caravans was that they were ridiculously easy to track down.

All Leo really needed to follow was the road, as there weren't many paths in the jungle that could fit in a trail of vans. And even then, the tires left tracks in the dirt, the bandits often threw out condom wrappers through the window (along with used ones that made Leonardo wrinkle his snout), and the occasional oil stains on the ground from a busted van.

Idly, Leonardo would have thought that someone would have caught them by now. They didn't even bother covering their tracks.

_Then again_, he thought as he grimaced when he felt another heat wave coming, _No one ever comes this deep into the jungle._

So what were they looking for?

They were trudging along in a seemingly random direction, occasionally making a sharp turn that led them all deeper and deeper into the jungle. Then, an uphill road, too narrow for anything else than a small car. Something the van wasn't.

Leonardo peered at them as the bandits piled out of the cars first, then grimaced when the slaves came out.

They were coming out in a slow, single file; hands bounds and chains on their feet connecting them in a ploy to make any hope for escape diminish. The clothes they wore were worn and stained with mud and blood. Leonardo reached back to grip at the handle of his swords when one of the women at the back of the line was separated and dragged off to another van while a man that was obviously her husband watched on in horror. The husband couldn't even take one step before he had the muzzle of a gun pressed on his forehead. He then, ever so meekly, stepped back into line, head bowed and shoulders shaking.

One of the bandits sneered at the husband, muttering a _patético _under his breath. A teenager behind the husband gave the husband's shoulder a comforting squeeze despite the binds, quickly retracting before any of the bandits could see, and Leonardo could saw the husband's eyes for the first time. Jade eyes burning with hatred, an intent for murder and lusting for revenge.

Leonaro couldn't quite convince himself not to let the man have at it.

(_I wonder what Raph would say if he saw me now?_)

IX.

Waiting until night was easy. Routine, even.

A camp was made at the side of the road, the vans parked on the far side while the slaves were pushed to a clearing a little into the foliage. The bandits decided to pile back to the vans, likely for food. Counting the bandits, he could tell it would be a busy night for him.

X.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes, silently unsheathing his sword.

(One, two – eight, ten – eleven, thirteen – eighteen in all. Eighteen stabs and hits and muffled screams.)

"Monste—!"

He made quick work of the bandits.

XI.

He went to the woman next.

As soon as the bandit tried to disrobe her, she took a knee to his groin and the bandit slapped her across the face hard enough to make her head snap to the side.

And in that instant, Leonardo appeared as nothing more than a gleam of metal and a pair of quiet footsteps as he pulled the body back and let the head lop off to the side.

The woman caught his eyes for no more than a few milliseconds at best, but the silent thank you in her eyes was more than enough for him.

XII.

As he took to the trees once more, he found that the husband had somehow managed to find the keys among the bodies of the bandits, and had released himself first before throwing them at the teenager behind him with instructions of how to escape without getting electric shocked.

Well that certainly explained why his clothes looked singed.

The husband then ran off to the direction they had taken his wife to, where Leonardo knew the woman was clothing herself once more before trying to find her way back.

Leonardo's attention was then focused on the teenager, who successfully managed to get himself out of his binds before going on to help the people around him. He went for the children first, making quick work of the chains before starting on the adults. It was only then, now that they had stopped moving, that Leonardo counted around two dozen adults with six children.

It was a good thing, then, that he had chosen to kill the bandits on the far side of the camp. He didn't want the children more scarred than they would already be during the entire ordeal.

XIII.

The now freed slaves were surprisingly organized. The husband took charge of the group, going over a map he had found in one of the vans to figure out how to get back to the quickest villae while his wife over by the children coaxing them to eat. Leonardo grimaced when he heard _el venero _and the children shaking their heads. What good would it be to poison slaves?

…If they were even slaves.

He felt his stomach sink. What were they captured for? If not for slavery, then…

XIV.

Sneaking into the vans was easy enough, finding the poison even more so.

Except it wasn't even poison. It was a drug Leonardo recognized, that was used to make people drowsy and lightheaded, more susceptible to commands.

_This just keeps getting better and better._

"Ah, I should be more surprised, but I'm not."

Leonardo's gaze snapped to the wife standing to the side of the van. She raised her arms up in a sign of surrender, a small smile gracing her lips, "I don't mean any harm," her English lacked the Spanish accent he was used to hearing in his time here, "I just wanted to properly thank you. Please, feel free to stock on food and water you might need. The natives the bandits had captured are natives to this part of the jungle, and they know enough to safely navigate us all to the nearest village – which means ou can take a copy of the map."

Well…he did need a map, especially if he was going to track down whoever was behind all this.

Leonardo sketched a shallow bow, ignoring the voice in his head (_We're not supposed to be seen! Kill—_),"Thank you. "

* * *

**A/N: Wow, I don't think I've ever updated things so fast before. **


	6. Chapter 4

XV.

Lincoln M. Kelith sighed through his nose as he sorted through the group's supplies. One look at the water bottles and they knew that some, if not all, were spiked with the poison they had been feeding them from before to make them all submissive.

He had been the only one who refused water, and had suffered a mild case of dehydration as a result, but it was worth it. He wasn't as susceptible to commands as they rest of the group was, and was thankful for it.

Closing his eyes, he opened them once more to crane his head in search for his wife. He found her bright platinum blonde hair easily against the darkness of her environment. Roselle was his Caucasian wife; he remembered meeting her here during a project he was previously involved in. He had brought her to the village where they had met, planning to celebrate their anniversary in their old meeting place near the ruins of an old temple.

Roselle caught his gaze and smiled at him before turning to attend to the children.

He resisted the urge to run to her, to check if she was really okay and not—

Lincoln sighed again. No amount of apologies would make this up to her, he just knew it.

"I'm pretty sure the poison was actually a sedative," a voice said beside him, bringing Lincoln's attention back to the group's current problem, "I..uh, saw this thing before. My brother used to use it on patients to calm them down in case he was short on anesthesia."

"Your brother was a doctor?" Lincoln asked, trying to tear his mind away from the horror still fresh in the back of his head. The teenager nodded in response, scowling when his unruly blonde hair fell over his green eyes. Lincoln offered him his wife's discarded hair-tie.

The teenager looked at him like he was an idiot.

Lincoln shrugged and tied back his own messy, long black hair into a low ponytail, "Just a suggestion. I say we go to the waterfall we passed. Being this deep into the jungle means that the water will be clean enough. Not many people around to pollute it."

"What about the animals peeing in there?"

"Would you rather drink the sedative-water, then?"

"…Nevermind," the teenager grunted. Lincoln snorted, "Go back to the vans, we might as well go now and camp out at the riverside."

Pausing, he turned back to the teenager, "What _is _your name, anyway?"

He saw the younger man tense, looking at the ground with a furrow in his brows.

"…It's Raph. Call me Raph."

XVI.

_"Don?"_

_"Wha— Where are you?! You know how __**worried **__I was when Mikey lost contact and then you decided to disappear off the face of the Earth—!"_

_"Relax, Don! I can't __**do **__anything when I'm being used like a damned druggie!"_

_"Druggie— …What happened? Where are you guys?"_

_A sigh, "We got separated, Don. It's just me here."_

_"Wonderful. Great. This is just __**beautiful**__. Now we're never getting out of here!"_

_"Will you stop panicking?! I'll look for Mikey as soon as night comes by. I'm pretty sure he was thrown in the river, and that's where we're heading right now."_

_"'…Fine," he sucked in a deep breath, "Fine, fine. Look, I'm sorry, I just…"_

_"it's okay, bro. The situation looks shitty to me too," a pause, "Hey…now that you can talk to me, can you talk to Mikey now too?"_

_"…"_

_"Don?"_

_A sigh, "There's a problem. I did, but he…I think e has some sort of memory problem. He can't remember our link. I'm pretty sure he thinks I was part of his imagination."_

_"…Fuck."_

_"I know."_

XVII.

Sleeping in the van all day meant he had more than enough energy to spare for night-searching. Currently, he was with Lincoln and his wife Roselle, lugging around knapsacks they'd found in the back of one of the vans to find more food in case they'd get delayed for one reason or another.

They'd already dropped the water off, and the three of them were picking wild berries under Roselle's watchful eyes.

"Those are poisonous berries, Raph," Roselle said from behind him, producing a small plastic bag from the pocket of her jeans, "Put 'em in here though, they might come in handy."

He took the small plastic bag, eyeing the berries warily, "You're not looking to poison the bandits if they come back, are you?"

The grin she gave him told him enough. Tossing a side-glance at Lincoln's direction, Raph was pretty sure neither of them would mind poisoning the bandits.

Not that he'd stop them. Shrugging, he stuffed the dark blue berries inside the plastic bag and tucked it into his pants. (It had been so _weird _to wear pants for the first time. At least it didn't look as tight as Roselle's.)

"We're here," Roselle said, though Raph had heard the river long before he'd seen it, "And I think someone might be dead."

Her blasé attitude towards death should have been disconcerting…then again, who knew how long she'd been captured before he and her husband came by rolling in? And—

Raph sniffed the air. Then Raph cursed enough to make Lincoln cover his own ears. Afterwards, he stood and stormed off in the blood trail's direction.

"..Well," Lincoln said wryly, "At least he took his knapsack with him."

"What makes you think he smelled food?" Roselle asked with amusement.

"Dead animal, maybe?"

XVIII.

Waking up to a dull ache compared to the stinging pain he was dealing with before passing out from exhaustion was a nice change.

Waking up to a blonde teenager and a kid with dark skin and a really, _really _familiar afro was…different. Not bad…but _different._

Not to mention he more or less freaked out when he recognized just _why _the ground was moving again. The teenager moved to calm him down, placing a hand awkwardly on Michelangelo's arm and muttering explanations.

When it was clear that he wasn't calming down in the slightest, the kid's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates when the teenager raised an arm and slapped him across the face. Silence reigned for a few minutes, as Michelangelo was trying to process the stinging pain on his cheek and the teenager looked down, thoughtful, at his hand.

"Well, what do you know? That actually worked."

A/N: And it's at this point that it'll be veering off a bit. Not quite, but it's still there. Some scenes will still be there. And yes, Mikey WILL end up being more or less stranded with Leo...just, differently this time.

(And why does that Line button keep disappearing on me?!)


End file.
